Trompe l'oeil
by Nicoledelion
Summary: ."I can cease heartbreak by just regulating the rhythm of my pulse. Possibly." The unraveling of a cherub's sanity. Ryou-centric angst
1. oo1

After being on a several year hiatus and deleting all of my old work, I am back. -Throws confetti into the air joyously- Although I am not sure at all of whether or not this fandom is still thriving or not as it was back in 2003-2005, I hope that at least _one _person might read this. And perhaps not believe it to be utter crap. Oh, good olè Ryou-centric angst. Nothing gets the blood pumping like so!

Ryou: Why must you be so cruel? Aren't I your favorite muse?  
L: But of course, love. Over these past few years, however, I have become mad due to stress--A little sadist at that. My daughter, however, is much worse I am afraid.  
Ryou: Yes, I know. Thankfully she adores Jounouchi far more than I.  
-both of them state blankly as L's daughter puts pink ribbons in Jou's hair-

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh. Please do not sue the poor college student.

- - - -

Ryou:

_I can cease heartbreak by just regulating the rhythm of my pulse._

_Possibly._

_Have you ever felt so ridiculously hopeless, even though you should not? Misery engulfs your vision, suffocates your lungs, and yet you feel foolish as to why? When you are fortunate enough to be mostly financially stable, with family and friends who adore you? Sure, there have been rough patches, times where you have fallen and cried. But nothing to severely impact your life as this did. Or was this a sign of foreboding, that something deep down acknowledged that something was to happen soon? This pain twinge at my heart, and twisted it until it burned. What in my life could possibly be so heart wrenchingly sad?_

_What could hurt, youth?_

_What could hurt, _Hello-My-Name-Is..

_My brain could not seem to process an identity to myself, because I was not myself. There was something missing. Wasn't there? Something so important to me, that even though I did not know who, what, when, I knew it was missing from me. And I had to find him. Him. My head was pounding, straining to remember who it was that I felt so desperately to find, to protect, even if there was more than a twinge of fear in the pit of my stomach knowing that I should not feel this way, that I should not be so desperate to hear his voice, to feel his presence, to know he is still. Here. Was I the product of some sort of brain-washing experiment? What in my right mind could cause me to miss such a person, whose name I cannot come to remember. I, me, _Hello-My-Name-Is..

_I was alone inside of my head, when I knew I should not be, inside of a room, where as well I knew was not mine, with a bed next to another youth, sleeping. I thought of going outside, only to notice a male as if standing guard outside of mine and this other boy's open door. To lock us in? My mind strained to reason why I was here in this building that was not my home, sharing a room with a boy I did not know, with a man guarding the door. The security guard look irate when noticing I was up, narrowing his eyes slightly. 'Go back to bed,' they read to me. Sighing, I turned to face the opposite direction of this man, and in doing so, finally noticing the sharp pains coming from different sections of my body, making it stiff and each slight even thought of movement angers my body. I squinted in the dim light, trying to find the closest view of why my body could possibly be in such physical agony. And what I saw, almost made me want to scream. Almost._

- - - -

I wouldn't say that my life was a "lie"--No need for those sorts of melodramatics. Happiness was not a facade, just difficult to come by. To a blind eye, who could see nothing than a mere high school boy? Perhaps slightly queer with natural silver locks and an almost unsettling polite, quiet demeanor. Smiled with his peers, answering when questioned, politely apologizing when declining some sort of invite. Who could see his reasoning? Who else could feel the cold, ancient metal digging into his skin, piercing through to his heart? I, him, Bakura Ryou do.

Have you ever been to curious as to what jumping from a roof top would feel like? To just fall, have the wind tickle your sides until your eyes watered, and Death waited for you patiently to greet you with open arms? To wonder what it would feel like to take that toaster that never works for a bubble bath and if the shock would tickle? Or perhaps to just let the blood flow from your wrist into warm water, gently falling asleep? The last one seemed more plausible than the other two, however the choice just may be indirectly bias due to my Other Half and his faithful practice of masochism. When you are close to someone, their traits tend to rub off on you even without realizing it. How much closer could you be than him and I, with interlinked minds?

At this point, it made no sense as to exactly why I still put on the Sennen Ring, when nothing pleasant was ever the outcome. If I was truly _that_ lonely to reduce my range to just that of a mad-man, it would be more than just pathetic, but irrational and just plain.. Un-wise. However, I was far from unloved, despite my father's constant trips with lengthy time spans to which I would not see him, but company was what Yuugi and his gang were for. I could feel that they were always at least somewhat frightened of me, never completely at ease due to my Other Half's more than convincing acting skills. So then why was I so desperate to put on the Ring each time I swore I was to wear it for the last time? Was it just my pitiful escape to allow someone else to take over and allow myself to disappear? Was I truly that selfish as to let the rest of the world be in constant peril just because I was too wish-washy to handle reality?

Yes.

- - - -

_I could tell my arms were profoundly swollen, despite the inability to see things clearly. The skin's texture was off: Torn flesh was everywhere, scabs beginning to form with some sort of awkward gel texture covering them (Neosporin, perhaps?). The stiffness ran through my entire body, so I only assumed that these areas were also covered in (for whatever reason) healing wounds. Memory rendered to be useless at this point to the exact reasoning for the some-what mutilation of my body and being in a room that I was not familiar with, sheets stained with my own blood? Mind. Find. Reason_. _Why am I here? Search. __Why are you here?_ Search. _Hello-My-Name-Is.. Discombobulated minds are extremely irking_._ Why aren't you here?_

_I have been awake for hours--Days. I could feel my head throbbing, with this awkward conflict between my body aching to sleep, but somehow being physically unable to. Each time my eyelids closed for more than a few seconds, this unnatural restlessness stirred within me, the strain in my skull almost forcing my eyes open despite obvious exhausted from sleep-depravation. I have been awake for days, but could not even begin to remember why. How long had I actually been here? Static. Nothing. I sighed, irate from my prior trance-like-state that left me with a lack of memory to anything really prior to this instance. There was an awkward taste in my mouth, left overs from something thick but almost liquid like. It was awkwardly sweet and left mouth to throat dry, parched and aching with thirst. Breathing proved to be more of an issue than needed to be, stomach wrenched in knots from a mixture of hunger and yet knowing I could not keep anything down. My heart thudded awkwardly fast--Even if I was panicking, it shouldn't be this so. The more conscience I grew, the more I longer for the null state I had been prior. However, this desire was not out of physical pain; Physical pain was bearable with most damage done will heal in a matter of time. No. This ache in my chest, the glass heart turning to fragments, its shards cutting through me as they plunged deeper._

_Is there someone missing?_

_Should someone be missing me?_

_Sunlight began to fill the room. Slowly but surely, my roommate began to stir, shifting his face opposite to the rising sun through heavily almost bar-like windows. I waited longer, trying to find which ways to shift my body with causing the least physical amount of discomfort. The area around my eyes throbbed with sleep-depravation making things some-what difficult to see. What I could make-out was the guard from earlier approaching. __It's time to wake up, I read on his lips. __Make your bed. Mechanically, the other boy and myself folder sheets and I flinched almost seeing all of the awkward rust-colored stains from my own. However, this practice was simple enough, although the other youth next to me looked rather irate. 'They change the sheets and shit anyway when we eat,' he grumbled in a low voice, not seeing why we had to do this. Eventually, I got the hang of moving around in an effective, less painful manner, even if it meant moving slower than I would like to. The guard gave us time at least for brief human moments and I sighed thankfully for the (very) brief time I was allowed to myself. The restroom located inside of our room was small and painted a generic off-white color, small cracks were its decoration, as well as a small spider making itself home in the left hand corner of the shower. It looked me over with its many eyes, trying to see if I was a threat or not, I suppose, to which I would have normally have shuddered in my "right" state of mine (that much about myself I knew at least). I smiled wryly at the spider. It went back to spinning its web._

_I gazed for what it felt forever into the mirror and almost rushed out from a mixture of being summoned by the guard to hurry, and because I had to look away. There was a strange youth with wild silver locks, whose complexion was reduced to a chilling bone white (perhaps from blood loss?). The windows to his soul dramatically stood out from the rest of his body, with whether it be intensity of his emotion or the black and red that encircled the areas, deep lines drawn under. His lips were chapped, slightly dark with some sort of black substance caked onto them. The boy had try and touched his face, but was startled at the way I was gazing at his arms. Red, swollen and shiny, pretty scabs decorated him like sleeves. He looked the type that could wear tears like jewels, passing for some type of Prince of Sighs. But what most stood from this youth was the arrangement of letters carved over where his heart was supposed to be._

- - - -

He was at it again, the transparent, helpless (in this form at least) apparition paced back and forth, contemplating grumpily. I chewed my cereal slowly, watching him pace and eventually chewing at the pace of the would-be-sound of his foot steps. How I ever became used to his astroprojectial form, I do not know. It had once been all too eerie seeing him in the depths of my kokoro, an almost exact image of myself speaking back to me. He had the potential to look angelic, with his girlish hips and wide auburn-brown eyes, silver locks dangling in front of his immaculate face. When he became animated with speech however, this innocence seemed to fade with his twisted smile and Devil tongue. He was very beautiful in a way that I would never be: His confidence illuminating the world around him, charming others with his cat-like grace and fierce, reckless laugh that sent chills down your spine. Yes. My yami was beautiful in a way I would never be. His child-like scowl was cast in my direction, more irate than actual fury was plaid upon his face. He wasn't fond of my random bouts of masochism when I took off the Ring that bound us. Why was he angry, after being my muse for such actions? No, not the blame. I am not arrogant to blame him for my own actions. However, he had made it look all too intriguing with the way he had unflinchingly wounded our body from time to time. I wondered faintly if I wouldn't flinch as well. I didn't.

"Don't be a copy-cat, find some sort of originality in the outlet of your petty angst!" he hissed, eyes narrowing. "You do not have the slightest idea of what you are doing. If _you_ die, then _I_ am stuck inside of that damned Ring once more!"

"You need me, how could I forget? Poor ickle Tzokou-ou." I knew I would pay for my petty indifference later. He threw up his arms angrily, cursing in a language long forgotten in this modern time. He grew frustrated at the fact that I had grown cold towards him instead of cowering in fear like I had done all too many times before. When this change had occurred, we both were not sure of. The days where I was his helpless, sniveling pawn seemed years ago.

A life time ago.  
My heart had long since hemorrhaged since. I was bled dry.

He was restless and bored, aggravated as always. The intense eyes I had once feared smoldered as they locked upon an identical pair locked in its gaze, unmoved, unaffected. I wondered briefly what it was like to be so powerful and yet to helpless, rendered into a mere spirit form without a physical body to inhabit. Although this, I had known all too well due to his previous trappings of me, locked away into the depths of our soul room, banging on the doors and yet not feeling them.. Not knowing how to get out. My kokoro had been decorated with toys then, the innocence that I was. What it was now, I did not know: I hadn't been there, since. He tried to analyze my mind, probe for any sort of weakness to throw back at me with reverse psychology that he often liked to use when toying with his victims. I had long since learned to switch my mind set to AM rather than FM, where his mind had access to mine. Now and then I slipped up and I was reminded of the terrible being he was. I'm getting better.

I thought about him being trapped in the Ring once more, wondering for how many more millennia he would suffer alone. Years of sharing minds had softened him, as much as he did not like to admit. And although his utter most abhorrent for Yami no Yuugi was evident, it seems as though his revenant was never to be fulfilled. He would eventually succumb to madness with nothing but his hate to drive him, and then eventually in time become bored with madness and became some-what sane once more. Do not mistake him being sane as a sign of goodness or humanity: He is an indiscriminate killer, cynical, brilliant and cold. He didn't have to be stoking mad to be such--It was just his nature. The sanity did make him more tolerable to be around, however. Still equally as dangerous, yet less threatening. Perhaps I had inherited his madness which made him appear almost normal to me. It was plausible, at this point.

Dwelling on the subject, I stirred the ruminates of my cereal and absent-mindedly asked, "How long would you be trapped in There once I die?" The inevitability of it still shook me at times. Death, that is. I had long since abandoned the fear of The Final Judgment and being cast into the pits of Hell, or snuffed out eternally like a candle that lost its light. My yami was proof enough of there being _some_ sort of after life, and he himself had no knowledge of whether there was a God or Devil, if Christ died for our sins on the cross that so many wear absent-mindedly, not taking heed to the sacred meaning to which it once stood for. He said he was too old to think of such trivial things, as he put. And that he was the closest thing to the Devil there was. At times I pitied the Devil for being mocked so by my other half's arrogance. After being created by the Lord Himself, being once an angel and witness of all of God's wonders and horrors of creation, existing since existence.. I did not believe the Devil was a stupid, maniacal soul. Perhaps he went through bouts like my yami did: Time frames of insanity and clarity. Surely, he must grow tired of madness, too. I pitied him for being compared to by my other half (it would be like if I had claimed I was a savior like Christ).

He shrugged irritated by my usual unpredictable questions. My mind focused back on him. "Well, if the past is to repeat itself (which most of the time it does), I would say that my body will be reincarnated once more as well as the damned Pharaoh's, we will battle and bring the world to near obliteration once more assuming you damned mortals haven't made the planet uninhabitable by then with your damned Swiss-cheese barrier you can an o-zone. Every time I become flesh once more with our body, I swear I can taste the pollution in the air and the damned sun cancering my skin!" He stuck out his tongue childishly, but his eyes were dangerous. Sarcasm was perhaps the most fluent of tongues for him. "If this is to occur and the human race has not died of cancer or caused a nuclear war, then I hope to inhabit a far more useful host than _you_."

His face was so twistly animated, slight lines on the sides of his mouth to show the wear of his constant laughter. He appeared to be the more human of us at times, even if he was the supposed evil. I sat there in silence, not bothering to focus on what I had been staring at. _When I die.._ a soft sigh escaped my lips, shutting my eyes gently to be clouded by darkness with faint shimmers of dark red and gold peering through. If I kept them closed long enough, I would see inside my lids spots. It was one of those rare moments where I pondered death, not frightened by it as most, but just to think of it as it were. The process was simple, really: Heart ceases beating, organs shut down, life equals terminated. The utter simplicity of it left me unnerved, but the awkward thought of no longer feeling my chest pound within seemed odd to me. Growing up as I did accustomed to the constant move and change (such came the life of a son of an archeologist who traveled, without a mother to take care of the child. I went with him wherever his expeditions took us, and it wasn't until I became older that I decided to plant my roots somewhere, perhaps bother to make friends long enough to remember their names. I was well old enough to know how to man the fort while my father was away for months and months, while he sent in money for the bills. My father does not speak of my mother, so do not ask me of her absence. I do not know. I simply do not know). The heartbeat I had carried since birth had been the only true consistency in my lifetime and the thought of losing my companion was the only sad part of Death. My heart quickened at the hooded one's name. Hush, calm yourself, dear friend.

I scanned the room in a null fashion of the Iconic pieces my father had collected for our humble abode. When he was home, we often spoke of history and art, and how often those two seemed to coincide. The art of Hellenistic period in Rome, as well as their many copies of Greek art that had long since been destroyed was among my father's favorite subjects, the immaculate, idealized face of Apollo that would soon become an early depiction of Christ, with cherub-like features and gorgeous curls, much different from the bearded man Christ we see depicted today. This lead to his greatest obsessions, being the work of the Gothic architecture in Europe (especially of Notre Dame and Reims Cathedrals with their beautifully solemn relief art of the Saints and Christ, rose windows and flamboyant arches..). The Renaissance also interested him greatly, watching the crude archaic and generic depictions of the Christ child looking like an elder dwarf to a cherub of some sorts that you would see in Ancient Greece and Rome flying faithfully beside their Pagan Gods and Goddesses. The Madonna becomes less stern and more motherly as she gazes tenderly upon her beloved, doomed son. A wonderful comparison between these two time periods are the paintings of _The Triptych of the Madonna and Child with _Saints by Neri Di Bicci and the later work of Cima da Conegliano's _Madonna and Child in a Landscape. _My father used these two works as a comparison time and time again, so it was inevitable that the names and images were imprinted into my mind. I had often tried making due of being stuck together with my insufferable worse half, attempting to make conversation over art like I would do with my father. He, however, was not interested. Perhaps it was the thief within him that could not appreciate anything unless he actually had possession.

My father's Roman Catholic upbringings and appreciation for the Saints meant nothing to my other half. Why-when I wasn't religious-these Saints and God and Blessed Virgin meant something to me, I did not know. Perhaps it was the fabricated tale in which was so beautifully and yet arrogantly imprinted into text that I valued. Its wild stories of heroism, sexism and all sorts of other isms kept me enthralled when I had nothing else to read. Just because you do not believe in something, does not mean you cannot find its words moving, or beautifully sad. In any event, it was not these Holy items that kept my historical interest like did my father. It may seem all but obvious what my passions of the ancient world is and was, as its existence intertwined in mine.. A history that would rob me of my senses, alienate me from any chance of the life I had once sought when first beginning my independence and rooting in the once uneventful town of Domino, Japan. The history that will claim my being forever, seclude my lonely soul..

It was supposed to be a gift, the Sennen Ring. How I had marveled such a gift from my father, almost girlishly squealing in delight of its rough, reddish Egyptian gold with the Eye of Horas in the middle of a splendid triangle, encircled by a gold bar with five pointed cylinders at the sides, clanking together as it was moved. How I had marveled upon this beautiful object, blinded by my childish euphoria, not even sensing the ancient evils that would be faced upon my young self at the time. How the blasted beautiful, golden object would stick its daggers into my soul and shatter my innocence, over and over until years later there was not the polite, wide eyed youth with a shy smile (although polite and quiet my exterior stayed, inside, timid, I was and now am not). An evil so ancient that it was an ancestor before the supposed first true ruler of Egypt, Narmar, with a tongue different from the Afro-Asiatic and Arabic languages, long since lost in the sands of time.

How it ensnared and robbed me of my senses..  
How it unraveled my mind.

- - - -

_Hello-My-Name-Is..  
The boy in the mirror with his defeated expression, written in English upon his pale chest: "Tzokou-ou". I went into the hall, trotting slowing along with several other boys my age who seemed to know where they were going, for certainly I did not. My body ached with the constant shifting of my body, the scabs stretching as the skin moved with each step. I must find out where I was. Who I was. Who The King of Thieves must be._

-L and Baby I happily hum as they tie up the bishounen-

Jou: You won't get away with this, authoress..  
L: Perhaps _I_ won't, but do you really wish to go up against a toddler's rage? -Jerks thumb over to Baby I-  
Ryou: We should invest in white flags..


	2. oo2

_**Where we last left our beloved bishounen, they were all tied up and facing L and her daughter's fan girlish wrath..**_

**Yami no Bakura: Hell hath no fury, bitch.  
L: Don't use such language. A rather impressionable toddler is present amongst us, thank you.  
Ryou: I don't think she's rather attentive to us right now, though..  
-All of them stare blankly as they watch L's daughter have tea with Jou-  
Yami no Bakura: See? Now, where was I? Oh, yes: Bitch.  
L: Oh, now it's on.. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or its sexy girlish men. **

_- - - -_

In my youth, I had grown up with an ignorant love for The Lord. For the psalms, hymns and quiet rituals of the Catholic church, for the stories my father read to me from night to night. The angels I found beautiful and I wept for Michael as he had to slay the first bourns of the still Pagan Egypt for their defiance of the Lord. I fasted and made The Sign of the Cross every time I felt blessed (which as a child being less cynical, I did so often..) and would say the most insignificant things I felt were my "sins" to a priest when in a Confession_; __Father, I have sinned._ Of what, my child? _I lied to daddy. I was afraid he would be angry with me. _Entering the church always sent a wave of serenity to me as I would dip my middle and index finger in Holy Water, whispering quietly to myself, '_In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit..'_

I had happily made my First Holy Communion by the time I was eight years of age, eagerly attending Catechism classes on Wednesday nights, jubilantly accepting the gifts of Eucharist, greedily consuming Christ's Body and Blood. Each time Lint came, I picked difficult things to give up, refusing to wipe away the ashes on my forehead. So foolish those days seem, so ignorant. I had been gifted with a soft, beautiful voice others told me. My teachers believed me to be an angel sent from the Lord, blessing their humble church with my immaculate, solemn voice that matched my wide eyes and pouting lips. My unnatural silver locks falling shaggily everywhere did not add to the appearance of heavenly decadence, my snowy skin soft looking, rounded cheeks. The face of an angel.. How often did my family and church mates ask me to sing to them? My father being the intelligent man he is had a deep appreciation for different cultures and languages. Him himself was fluent in several and often taught me how to sing variations of Biblical hymns in other languages, Latin being his favorite (as well as one of my own); '_Dies irate, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla. Teste David cum Sibylla, quantus tremor est futures. Recordare, Jesu pie, quod sum causa tuae viae..'_

But with age lessened my ignorance and with a new found maturity I read through my once sacred passages and perceived them in new ways. I remember being outraged of finding that Eve was not the first female the Lord had created. The depictions of Lilith angered me, as did the story of Samson and Delilah. Before I had viewed Delilah as some sort of heathen woman, whom of which should rightfully be condemned. After all, didn't she weaken her supposed beloved by the trickery of cutting her lover's magnificent hair, seducing him with her obvious devilish sexual charm? However, the inevitability of change was possibly the few consistencies with myself (I seem to be a breathing oxymoron), so in time the point of view that the church had bestowed upon me had shifted. It was obvious that Samson loved Delilah to a certain extent (or was at least infatuated with her), but who was to say that Delilah didn't love Samson back? Perhaps it was in her love that she could not take being taunted and misperceiving this as ridicule as the source of Samson's strength was constantly being fibbed? Perhaps her betrayed could be possibly justified by her love in that she realized that Samson's infatuation was merely just that? Being younger and more melodramatic, I thought to myself, _If I were a woman and knew the man I loved would never love me back.. I would finally snap as well._ Delilah got her money, Samson died by the hands of his foes.. All's fair in love in war, after all. As far as my anger towards having to find on my own that Lilith was Adam's first wife, the first woman to walk the Earth (that is, if you believe in Creationism). The fact that Lilith was a strong woman who demanded equality and separated himself from her arrogant husband seemed gallant to me and that in her strength that I had always admired in a woman, she was punished that a hundred of her children were to die each day. While in reading further into the subject, becoming obsessive (as I often do in research, even then) as Avetik Isahakyan stated in his works, "Though Adam's lips said Eve, his soul always echoed Lilith" struck me as horribly perverse. The endless scriptures of women being portrayed as heathens or disposable angered me, as if I was seeing for the first time. I was about thirteen, I believe, when I held this discussion with my father, stating my new found point of view of Delilah and Lillith being misperceived and seemed to me as being rather strong, righteous women that reminded me of famous woman revolutionary figures. I found them to be charming in a way, while my father remained old fashioned and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Son, do not question what the Testament proclaims. Our opinions are irrelevant at this point, and it is the vision of the Lord we must contain. Whether we think these women were good or evil does not matter--Just God's word." I was dumbstruck. Never had I pegged my father as being a religious fanatic, lacking a will or opinion of his own. For the first time in my life, I acknowledged that him and I were rather different creatures in that he was remaining the same and that I was not. Suddenly just my own Faith did not satisfy my. I felt parched and arrogant. Paganism fascinated me greatly, studying from my father's text books of ancient cultures and their multiple gods, their hold (and at time bloody) Sabbaths, anthropophagic feasts (which did not always have to do with early paganism), being in tuned with the Earth and spirits.. Perhaps it was the natural urge for even the most humble of teenagers to rebel, perhaps I had no true reason for refusing to go to church, refusing to keep my hair in the traditional short style men seemed to wear. I infuriated my father endlessly with my Godless-ness, my new du.. A father with all of the wrath from his former good son's rebellion, yet attempting to still show his unconditional love. Which-when thinking back to it-was more than I deserved from my cocky behavior, distasteful comments that I knew would hurt my father and yet I chose to utter them, anyway.. It seemed as though the day he told me not to question the Lord, my own faith in my biological father was shaken in some ways. Why I behaved this way, I could not justify. Perhaps it was a simple matter such as anger was such a rush, caused such adrenalin to flow through me that I let its fiery scorn caress every fiber of my soul. I danced with Anger, swiftly and arrogantly.. Because when you dance with Anger you can justify despicable actions, you can be the world's most insufferable bigot, a time bomb just waiting to detonate and just take whoever happens to be there with you on a one-way-ticket to Hell.. Because when dancing with Anger, romanticizing its passions you can pretend to forget that in a demand of blind obedience.. Your father broke your heart.

I sighed, feeling my eyes fog with the inevitable tears that came whenever thinking back to the ignorance of my childhood and the painful and too quick pace of the questioning that comes with maturity. Rage filled my heart, spiking it with an oh-too-familiar ache that throbbed through out me, weighing my breast with a malice that subsided to sorrow. Before pride would force me to choke back my sobs in front of my yami, the sound of his impatient voice would strike such fear into me that I would not speak. I kept the Ring far away from me, his mouth in an angry scowl for being the crybaby I always was. Once I had hoped that perhaps he was a gift sent to remedy my loneliness, instead of alienating me further after time in fear of him hurting anyone. Even my own father I barely spoke to, my silence wounding him deeper than the at times cruel words I had spoken in the days I danced with Anger. I was a lonely, damned child, the exact contradiction of the angel I had vainly been depicted as a child. His cold stare did not bother me at this point. I clenched my teeth and promptly dug my nails into the sleeves of my shirt, at first fighting at the very tears he mocked. My eyes opened suddenly, shaking and blurred as the panic attack ensnared me, and I gasped feeling as though my heart were to explode from my chest. I was disconnected from the world around me. Inevitably I cried. For that was all I could do.

'_Our Father, who art in Heaven; hallowed by Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil..'_

- - - -

_The walk didn't last long--At the end of the hall was an open door room with tiled floor, desks, and two different kinds of chairs. The boys took seat of the more comfortable looking chairs and rubbed their eyes to drive away any remnants of sleep. Ah.. Sleep. My body ached for it so, yet rejecting the thought as well just as violently. The nausea I felt was almost over-whelming, mixed with my fears of this silent place and the discomfort of my countless cuts. I thanked lightly that I had been wearing my usual long sleeves and that there was no one who could see me in this helpless form. This paranoid persona dropped automatically, when realizing that such prideful-ness was irrelevant here; Some of the boys had cuts to decorate their flesh, too. A man came in and smiled with a generic cheerful-ness, as if it were a necessary façade. He held a clipboard in his large right hand. The dark hairs on his knuckles and arms bothered me--I don't know why.. Reading off a few names from a list on his clipboard (mentioning them to follow him to the cafeteria, I believe?) I and the others felt an immediate and childish distaste for him. Something in my body told me to abhor this man and anyone here who dressed in the same uniform as him. The rest of the boys that still sat with me all glanced at one another and proceeded in calling this man every vulgar adjective under the sun. All of them seemed to be broken out of their drowsy-ness (save myself; I am not a morning person) and began quietly chatting amongst one another, as if suppressing the usual animated way men speak with one another. I understood at once: Do not let the staff of this place hear your true thoughts._

_A minute or so passed before us the remaining boys were instructed to line up quietly in the hall and we would get our breakfast. I stood timidly in the back of the line, picking the dirt from the inside of my nail observing the other boys in what to do; If there was any sort of idiosyncrasy of mine was that I could not stand not knowing what to do and others knowing this. Any signs of incompetence or just sheer stupidity on my behalf were inexcusable, however.. Me being the natural klutz and lacking any sort of social charm often prevented me from maintaining the posture I so yearned. This much about myself I knew well, despite any sort of amnesia. The throbbing near my eyes would not cease. Sleep. Sleep is what I would need. Eventually I had my own tray of food (I supposed it was food, anyway. The rest of the lot seemed rather displeased and when sitting down, I saw why). Lifting the lid to my container, there was hot white goop (watered down oatmeal?), packaged cereal of the Fruit Loop Variety, cartoned milk and juice. I was hungry, yes, but I could not contain very much substance. It did not matter though, since substance is that my body craved and that was what it would obtain. I found myself chewing slowly, almost counting every bite until the hammering sound of my chewing became an insufferable booming in my own ears. I was often rather self-conscience about such things as whether or not my chewing was loud or not, finding myself foolishly attempting to be proper in the manner in which I ate, etiquette at its finest even in a place I did not know, surrounded with strangers in their pajamas. At times I can be a tad bit.. Strange. It felt as though everyone was staring at me, irate for making such damned noises with my chewing. I dared not look up. There was a distinct fear in me of the other boys here hating me for disrupting their morning. I could tell what I feared, what made my heart ache. I knew this part of the alchemy to my being, part of the fibers which constructed my personality. But who I was, am.. How could I not know?_

_- - - -_

Any sort of belief that I had become this boy with a metal heart shatters every time I think of my father and my once beloved Christ. My arrogance proceeds me and I felt even more foolish when I caught myself making the Sign of the Cross. He laughed, of course, as he always does when I finally crack. I tried my best to throw a hateful glance at him, for my eyes to pierce his soul and to send a chill down his spine. A chill that would make him stop laughing and apologize and fear my wrath. To treat me as I were a sacrosanct, inviolable. He eyed my mind as if it were candy and I felt immediately violated, as if I had been mentally castrated. He eyed me coyly, tilting his head alone with his sadist smirk. "Frankly dear, I don't give a damn." he quoted admirably. I was Scarlett and he was Rhett, and we were no gentlemen. Where was my darling Mammy to scold me for my selfishness? I was on my knees with cotton picking hands, my pride diminished to nothing more but this: I must survive. I am starving. I must survive. With the setting day in play with its majestic auburn's and black, I strike my fist into the air and the thick Southern air filling my lungs I preach, "I'll never go hungry again!"

I sulked childishly and wiped the tears from my eyes. "_Et tu, Brute_?"

'Then fall, Caesar," he replied dryly, no longer amused by my a gust behavior. We could spend days comparing one another to fictional characters, reciting line for line of who were our roles, mocking one another in an almost sophisticated manner; When you are alone, you have nothing better to do.

I am Caesar, he is Brutus. I am Scarlett, he is Rhett. I am Othello, he is Iago. I am Benjamin, he is Turpin. I am Duncan, he is Mac Beth. _I am Faust and he is The Devil, but this time God will not save my soul. He is not there. _

- - - -

"_Mood evaluation sheet". It was almost insufferable to suppress my laughter._

How are you feeling? _Fine._Do you have an appetite? _No._

Do you have self-destructive urges? _No._Do you feel at risk to yourself? _Yes._

_Perhaps it is my own failure as a person in being unable to understand the human condition and how to let peace to my soul. Perhaps I am merely the breathing anachronism for ignorance. Secretly, I want everyone to know that there is something wrong with me, wrong enough for there to be nothing wrong with me and that I just am a fussy prat. That I want attention, that I want to be left alone.. But despite any sort of contradictions, in my selfishness I do not wish to bother to fix these things. With painful cuts engraved all through out my body, with the faint taste of sweet charcoal on my lips.. I cannot help but feel as though that in my misery, I might as well be glamorous as a male can be. I will throw a tantrum for attention and deny help, I will be that irking person that no one wants to be near because they are just than damned eccentric in their motions. I will be a humble fool and smile and not mean it and say that my "depression" is lessening to understanding, only to most likely end up here again. I will be the wise-man, I will be the fool. And I will most likely not do any of what I stated above._

_I am but merely a slave to my mind's incoherent, spontaneous musings._

_- - - -_

**A/N: Something that I would wish to clear up here and now: The point of this fan fiction is not to smear any sort of religious beliefs down the reader's throat. The main background to the original story was that I remembered in my middle school and early high school years I spent on this silly site typing up Bakura Ryou angst, just doing more or less the same story-lines over and over with no real explanation for his distraught and suicidal behavior and I really wasn't thinking too much into fan fiction of anything of the sort for several years since the birth of my daughter, being wrapped up in schooling and mothering. Myself being young, I have introduced things I had loved just a few years ago as a child (PokeMon, Yu-Gi-Oh, Hamtaro, ect). And when watching Yu-Gi-Oh once more it brought me back to the days of when I was thoroughly in love with my bishounen muse and had posters of animated characters all over my bedroom walls, which is now my daughter's room and decorated with tastes. **

**But. Back on the subject: In reminisce of my past fangirlism and my daughter becoming rather obsessive herself (she really adores Yuugi and Jounouchi), I became swept back up in my past fan girl hype as well and decided to begin writing fan fiction once more when my daughter is asleep and I am finished with any sort of projects before it is too late (I am rather notorious for staying up until four AM and my wake-up time is five AM). And in choosing to write once more, I had thought about past authors who I had admired in my youth, White Angel Chan still being my absolute favorite. I had always admired these authors (and WA in particular) with their rather distinctive story lines and writing styles. I had thought to myself for a long time of what could possibly cause poor Ryou to be this character that seems so popular to be featured in fan fiction. And then I decided: I am going to make up my own reasoning's, attempt to shape his character to someone who is rather introverted but a passionate and yet monotone figure, whose apathy can be mistaken for being polite. In this story Ryou is rather plagued by his Faith in growing up as a child and that being destroyed (depending on the person) can have a rather devastating effect, not to mention that he will be portrayed in this piece with more of a bi-polar edge to him which seems to haunt most genius individuals (which also will explain his constant tone changes through out the piece, as well as reasoning's for his rather impulsive behavior). It is his need for constant learning that is his downfall, must like in the **_**Odyssey**_** where because of ****Odysseus****'****curiosity lead him to kill the Cyclops and in doing so sparked****the wrath of Poseidon and is constantly blown off course on his way back home from Troy, taking him on wild adventures but there is a rather inner turmoil over not obtaining just what he wants (to return home). That is more or less Ryou in this piece: His intelligence and need to know persona is the basis of his misery, his thirst for **_**knowing**_** being so great that it brings him much pain when contradicting to things he had already believed in, which drives him into bouts of isolation and this arrogant, "No one would understand me" wishy-washy self-pitied tone. **

**So. Between taking 18 units per Quarter and chasing around a three year old, wish me good luck in writing these chapters and I do hope that the A/N helped add a better understanding to Ryou's psyche and the more-or-less **_**point**_** of the story, along with conversations of books, history and music, art, ect. If I have made a mistake in any of my statements, please do tell me. Any sort of constructive criticism is rather appreciated! **


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